


That Others May Live

by imaginary_iby



Series: Can Neither Confirm Nor Deny [3]
Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Air Force, BAMF!Danny, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-28
Updated: 2012-03-28
Packaged: 2017-11-02 15:25:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/370496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginary_iby/pseuds/imaginary_iby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seconds from death, inches from his enemy and lost in the jungles of Papua New Guinea, Steve had not been expecting his partner to save the day.  Turns out, there's more to Danny Williams than meets the eye.  Otherwise known as: Danny is a BAMF, the Air Force redux.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Others May Live

**Author's Note:**

> I highly suggest that if you have any knowledge of the USAF, (or, indeed, you have a brain), you sever your ties to reality and splash water on your face before reading this. I need to remove myself from the internet, pronto, because I have an unhealthy obsession with Danny being secretive and powerful. \o/
> 
> This story parallels a fic I wrote a while back, called [Can Neither Confirm Nor Deny,](http://archiveofourown.org/works/344233) so many apologies if this doesn't feel fresh. I just enjoy BAMF!Danny so much.
> 
> Also - I love Steve, but sometimes his disinclination to share with the team, with Danny, annoys me. There is a deleted scene where Danny berates Steve for not informing him of his intentions to sneak into the Governor's mansion - this expands on that.

Blinking rapidly, droplets of blood and specks of ash resting heavily on his eyelashes, Steve tries to clear his head. There’s an awful noise buried deep within his skull, a whistling ringing that makes him feel like reality has shifted a few feet to the left and his senses have shifted a few feet to the right.

The disconnect is jarring – as is the sharp gravel digging into his palm. He hones in on the pain, narrows his existence down to the sensation and tries to gain information from it. 

He is on the ground. Sprawled awkwardly, if the unnerving twist of his left knee is any indication. The gravel between his fingers tells him that he is propping himself up with his hand. This is good news and bad news. Good, in that he’s halfway to standing, and bad, in that he’s halfway to making himself a target. 

It’s not in his nature to cower, not in his nature to curl up until the work is done. He tries to re-knit the pathways between his brain and his limbs. He orders the muscles in his arms to tense, demands that his hands find purchase on the ground so that he can push himself up. 

Determination blends with amusement. Half of his brain is issuing precise instructions, terse military commands. The other half is giggling, delighted by the fact that he seems to have forty fingers. He waves them in front of his face, enjoying the way they seem to wobble and trail like sparklers. He remembers New Years Eves from long ago, when he and Mary would write their names in swift golden lines against the inky paper of the night air.

The part of his brain that’s thinking about _extraction points_ and _strategic cover_ is screaming furiously, now. He knows he must look beyond ridiculous - wrapped up in broken battle gear; covered in blood and debris; flopped in the middle of a rapidly crumbling warehouse and grinning like a loon at his limbs.

There’s nothing to be done for it. You can have all the training in the world – he certainly does - but a brain and body in peak condition can only do so much when a frighteningly powerful stun-grenade goes off in your face.

It had burned, seared, flashed and flared, and a pulse of pain clamps down on the amusement, allows determination to flood his system once more.

A bullet pings against a crate a few inches to his left, and he is relieved that the noise is fairly concise. It isn’t enough. A smidgeon of aural improvement isn’t going to help him deal with the fact that Wo Fat is bearing down on him, kicking at crates to clear a path, weaving between chunks of smouldering bits and pieces.

Steve knows that he’s seeing double – there is only one Wo Fat in this world, and two pump action shot guns doesn’t make any physical sense. A lone shotgun is hardly any consolation - it only takes one bullet, after all.

He tries to scrabble backwards, away. In the distance, he can make out a blurry stumbling shape – Joe, he surmises. He has no gun, can be of no use. 

By the time his eyes make the sluggish adjustment from long distance to short, Wo Fat is looming over him. The two shotguns dance behind his eyelids until they become one, pointed right at his chest.

The deeply mechanical sound of a bullet being prepared unfurls in the air, and then there is an almighty shot. Even in the grips of a stun grenade, it is not the noise Steve was expecting. He was waiting for a grumbling ball of thunder, not a harsh snap and a sleek whistle.

Everything turns red.

He knows that there’s a massive disconnect between the reality of the world and the reality that is being refracted by his corneas. Just because he sees it, doesn’t make it true.

And yet. And yet, he cannot help but notice that he’s still breathing, that there is no new source of fiery pain. He cannot help but notice the trickle of red that is slowly seeping down Wo Fat’s brow, branching into tributaries at the jut of his nose and gaining speed only to pool at his jaw line. And then, he is gone, toppled backwards.

Realistically, Steve knows that a high velocity bullet between the eyes would blow you the hell away. He doesn’t know how his sluggish senses managed to break a single second of exploding flesh down into an extended moment of trickling blood.

He does know that Wo Fat is dead. The realization grounds him, and his eyes and his ears seem to stutter back into focus in a heartbeat. Not perfect, but enough to be moderately useful.

He flicks his eyes to the distance again, seeking Joe out, trying to ascertain just what the hell is going on. He is met only with Joe’s empty hands and confused expression. As they both catch their breath, Joe’s gaze lands on something behind Steve’s right shoulder.

His limbs finally cooperating, Steve turns awkwardly and peers through the smoke.

Danny. 

His partner is standing still, gripping what Steve’s wobbly eyesight would guess was a Blaser R93 sniper rifle with an ease that suggested it was merely an extension of his arms.

His trademark Chinos and button down are grimy; all black, no flair, merely covert and utilitarian. A scuffed vest is strapped around his stocky torso.

Steve is in serious trouble.

\---------

Silence. Steve has one arm around Danny’s shoulders and one arm around Joe’s, and as a unit they stumble their way into the jungle and away from the burning warehouse. Danny’s rifle, secured on a strap, is slung around his back, nozzle facing the sky.

As they make their way through the thick vegetation, Steve sees several bodies scattered here and there. Always a single bullet, always an instant kill. He knows without looking that Joe is also assessing the bodies, can feel the flick of his training officer’s speculative gaze towards his Jersey partner. 

They walk for hours, the ground too uneven and the vegetation too thick for a vehicle to penetrate. This tells Steve two things: that his knee is going to require surgery, and that Danny is capable of infiltrating and operating in difficult terrain and covertly eliminating enemy targets to ensure an easy exit.

Steve slips, exhaustion creeping deeper and deeper, and despite the fury that is radiating off Danny in almost tangible waves, Steve can feel his partner’s compact fingers adjust on his skin to get a better grip. He can feel the heat of Danny’s arm pressed against his back, curled against his side. Steve knows that Danny is carrying about seventy percent of his weight, knows that it’s too much, but there’s nothing he can do about it.

Finally, when he feels he can give no more, the sharp angles of a jeep emerge from the curves of the jungle.

\-----

Blinking slowly, Steve takes in the lazily oscillating fan and the cracked ceiling that is doing a fairly poor job of holding said fan, up.

 _Everything_ hurts. But everything also seems to be attached and working – he can quite clearly hear a bird of some sort screeching outside. The blades of the fan are sharply defined, no fogginess in sight.

Scratch that, everything _isn’t_ working fine. An attempt to sit up - he appears to be in a creaky old single bed - is foiled by a severely protesting knee.

A warm hand curls around his shoulder, heat seeping immediately from the familiar fingertips to melt through the clean cotton shirt that Steve has no memory of, coming to rest deep in his bones. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Steve rejoices in the sound of his partner’s voice, angry though it might be. When Danny moves into view, Steve takes in the angles of his jaw, the intensity of his blue irises, the baby blonde bristles of his stubble – everything is crisp and precise.

“You’ve seriously fucked up your knee, you idiot, so do me a favour and sit still, would you?”

Steve nods in acquiescence, wincing as he settles into a moderately comfortable position.

Danny sits back in a chair beside the bed that Steve had failed to notice, slouching to hook his right ankle up onto his left knee.

Behind him, propped against the wall next to the door, which is bolted three times and chained twice, rests Danny’s rifle. Yes, definitely a Blaser R93, with what appears to be a digital Hunter Scope fitted to it.

Steve mentally whistles, and when Danny tracks his gaze, his expression grows stony.

“That is not up for discussion.”

Steve would have laughed – everything was up for discussion with Danny Williams – but he gets the sense that there’s more to his partner than meets the eye. “What the fuck?” he half mumbles around a dry throat.

Danny’s eyes flash dangerously, but he gets up to fetch a bottle of water, viciously unscrewing the lid and pressing it to Steve’s mouth with force. “You never learn, do you.”

Steve swallows a soothing gulp of water, not sure what to say, not trusting himself to speak when the bottle of water, still open, is thrown angrily onto the bed.

“I told you,” Danny snarls, leaving the side of the bed to pace angrily. “I told you, three years ago. I’m your partner, I’ve got your back. This?” he waves an arm expansively, as if to take in the room, the situation, hell, even the country. “This is our problem. Your problems are my problems. And what did you do? You did it without me. Again. Without even telling me. Just took off with your stupid sneaky camo bullshit in the dead of night.”

Steve shakes his head. “This was different, Danny," he croaks. "Back then, I didn’t know any better. This time… I know, okay, I know, but how could I ask you to come?”

He can practically hear the gnashing of teeth in Danny’s jaw. 

“Newsflash, you fucker, you are not a god amongst soldiers, sailors, whatever, my care factor is zero.” A hand slashes violently through the air. “Believe it or not, other people on this godforsaken planet actually have a clue. There are, shock of shocks, other people in the world who have… what the fuck did you call it? _Certain specialties?_ And believe it or not, I am a grown man, and I choose what risks I do and do not take. You? Do not choose for me.”

Steve opens his mouth, desperate to point out that there was not a chance in hell that he was ever going to be able to ask Danny to risk life and limb that way. Protecting his home as a member of a federal task force was one thing, avenging Steve’s family in the jungles of Papua New Guinea was another thing entirely.

He doesn’t get his chance. A very specific knock sounds from the door, and Danny merely mumbles, “it’s Joe,” as he gets up and walks away.

\-----

When Steve next wakes, Joe is sat in the chair beside the bed.

“‘ere’s’Danny?” he mumbles.

Joe taps a finger against his jaw. “He’s gone, son.”

Steve is immensely relieved that he’s not hooked up to any sort of monitor, because the way his heartbeat immediately sky-rockets is too telling for his liking. 

As it is, Joe picks up on his frightened expression. “Calm down. He’s made arrangements for our return to O’ahu and he _instructed_ ,” the word is laced with deep suspicion, as if he’s never contemplated being ordered by Danny to do _anything,_ “me to inform you that he would meet us there. Although what he actually said was more… colourful.”

Steve nods, but the look in Joe’s eyes tells him there will be no immediate silence.

“Did you know?” Joe’s gaze comes to rest on the sniper rifle, still propped innocently against the wall.

Steve shakes his head. “No. I’m still not sure what I know. I mean, I know, but I don’t know what I know. Exactly.” He furrows his brow, slightly confused by the pain in his knee, and tries to rearrange his sentence into something useful. “No. I didn’t know Danny could… I mean, he’s a great shot, always has been, and of course he’s trained to use a variety of guns and rifles, but… this seems like…” he trails off, unsure.

Joe nods in understanding. “Maybe SWAT? Some sort of Federal hostage rescue?”

Steve can only shrug. “Maybe. But I don’t know why that wouldn’t just show up on his file. Nothing to hide there, really.”

Joe nods. “Special forces?”

“Yeah,” Steve whispers. “Maybe.”

\------

By the time Steve and Danny meet again in Steve’s kitchen, eight weeks have passed since PNG. A story was cobbled together for Chin and Kono – Steve’s disappearance easy enough to explain, Danny’s much harder. It all works out in the end, thanks to the uncharacteristically respectful nature of their normally voraciously curious co-workers. 

Every day has been torture. Whilst Steve and Joe had gone directly to O’ahu, and an operating room, Danny had texted Steve with a succinct, “things to take care of, see you soon.” The number had immediately been disconnected, though that didn’t stop Steve from calling it upwards of five times in the vain hope that he would be able to get through. 

Eventually, though, the day arrives when he limps awkwardly into the house, to find Danny leaning against the fridge. 

Steve licks his lips and sizes his partner up. “All good?”

He’s not an idiot. Covert entry into a country, a secret base of operations, (crumbly and creaky as it was) transportation and weapons – all those things require money and favours. 

He can’t bear the thought of Danny owing people, because of him. He knows better than to voice this, though, dodgy knee or no.

Danny grins, half affection, half aggravation. “Yeah. Well. Mostly. I still need to see a man about a dog. Don’t know when, though.” There is a hint of apology in his tone. “I missed you. I’m still furious with you, but I missed you.”

Steve nods. “Yeah, me too. I… I didn’t know that you were… that you could…” he trails off, because he still doesn’t know. He knows that Danny is clearly something other than a homicide detective from Jersey, but beyond that, he’s got no clue. “You’ll let me know when you need to go? Maybe if the knee’s better, I could go with.”

Danny’s affection gives way to anger. “The way you told me? The way _you_ gave _me_ the opportunity to help?”

There’s nothing that Steve can really say to that in answer. “I’m sorry!” He means to mumble it, but it comes out as a shout instead. He coughs, determinedly returning to his normal volume. “No excuse. I’m sorry.”

Danny nods.

\-----

It is many months later, when they find themselves staring up into the ceiling above Steve’s bed, too hot to sleep, that Danny finally reveals all. 

“So,” he announces to the quiet room, one muscled arm stretched upwards, as if trying to reach the stars. “I might have, possibly, signed up for the Air Force as soon as I graduated from college.”

Steve, in the middle of a cathartic deep breath, chokes violently. He scrambles his way to sitting, one of Danny’s warm hands pressed to the small of his back. He’d mentally prepared himself for SWAT, or some sort of elite riot police, hell even the FBI's Hostage Rescue Team or the CIA if push came to shove. But not the armed forces. 

Danny was too… _Danny_ , for the military. He was packed full of sarcasm, hissy quips and in your face bluster, all messy clothes strewn on the floor and deep fried foods. Regulation laces and correct salute posture and bed linen folded so tight you could bounce a quarter off it… that was not Danny. Shutting up because someone told you to shut up – _that_ was not Danny. Even an Officer had a lot of superiors.

Realization hits him. Maybe he doesn’t know Danny at all. Maybe this secret goes beyond Danny’s past affiliations – maybe it means Danny is not at all related to the person he presents to the world. Which is particularly problematic, considering Steve shares a bed with him every night.

“Relax, Rambo,” Danny tuts. “It wasn’t for me. Well, it was, but it wasn’t. I excelled, but I also sucked. I could find Narnia if you gave me a map, and I could shoot the whiskers off a rabbit, if I was so inclined – no offense, Mr. Hoppy, I would never - but every time my COs got in my face about my uniform or something, I wanted to deck ‘em. I know you'll find this hard to believe, but I was fairly arrogant in my youth." He flashes a devilish grin. "You can take the Air Force out of Jersey, but you can’t take the Jersey out of the Air Force.”

An acceptable amount of air now making its way to Steve’s lungs, he slithers back down the bed, resting his head on his pillow and looking up at Danny, sat next to him and leaning over. 

“We actually worked together, once,” Danny continues, reaching out to slide his fingertips into Steve’s hair. “Operation Blackbird, outside that tiny little town in northern Washington? Cult leaders were executing deserters, do you remember?”

Steve nods, tilting his head a little to let Danny’s fingers find the delicious spot behind his ear. 

“When we were in your dad’s garage, I recognized your voice. You gave the orders, in Washington, but you never heard me speak, so I guess I had the advantage. And then your team breached from the east, my team from the west, and that was that, we never really saw each other.”

Silence reigns, as Steve, not sure what to say, lets his eyelids flutter closed. He feels the dip in the bed as Danny’s body slides down to nestle against him. “I was never built for a career in the military, like you, so once my contract was up, I transferred to Newark PD, and, well, here we are.”

"Here we are,” Steve parrots back, a whisper.

\------

Steve wakes up so fast that he’s sitting bolt upright before he’s even got his eyelids properly open. 

Next to him, Danny grumbles and rolls onto his back. “Woah, big guy, what’s up?”

“Operation Blackbird!?” Steve breathes deeply through his nose – he managed to make it through high level SERE training without hysterics, and he wasn’t about to start now. “Danny,” he hisses, “that wasn’t just the Air Force, that was, those guys, I mean, those guys were Special Tactics. How the hell did an ambivalent kid from Jersey work his way into Air Force special operations? That would be a year’s training, alone. I mean, hell, you were working alongside SEALs and you didn't even care?”

Danny's eyebrows almost met his hairline, such was his indignation. "I never said I didn't care. What the hell gave you that impression? I cared, I cared a whole hell of a lot, and I gave it everything I had. I just didn't care for direct orders and commanding officers. I loved the job, never the institution, not like you do. So I figured I might as well do it somewhere else. The Navy might be your home, but Five-0 is mine."

Steve watches Danny take a deep and deliberate breath, and he knows his partner is trying to calm down. “Five-0 is my home too, you know.”

A few minutes pass, and then Danny presses his palm to Steve’s thigh, fingertips digging in, thumb stroking a dangerous line. “Whiskers off a rabbit, Steve, whiskers off a rabbit.”

\----

“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?” Danny asks around a dangerous grin. 

Steve narrows his eyes and proceeds to suck a fairly spectacular bruise into the curve of Danny’s shoulder. _Teach you to mock me,_ he beams mentally towards his partner.

“Stop it, you animal,” Danny protests, intending to smack Steve on the ass and settling instead for a quick squeeze. 

“I said,” Steve grits the words out against his partner’s skin, “are there any photos of you in your uniform?”

Danny pokes him in the side. "Just so you know, I will accept the day of my death before I accept the day that I salute you." He immediately realizes his error when Steve's face lights up like a Christmas tree.

"I hadn't thought of that! I'm your CO, oh lowly Captain."

At this, Danny bucks his hips up against Steve's, enjoying the groan it earns him. "Funny, I don't remember this in the training manual. When they told me I had to respect my superior officers, I don't think they had you fucking me into the mattress in mind."

\-----

It takes a year for the call to arrive. Steve, Grace and Danny are sat around the dinner table - Danny is scanning the paper for signs of trouble, but most of his attention is on Steve, who is vibrating with the effort of not helping Grace with her homework. She has to build a vehicle that will safely see a chicken egg through a one storey drop, and Danny swears he saw Steve inspecting SEAL parachute schematics the night before.

It is a fairly ordinary day, until Danny's phone lights up and rattles across the table to rest next to his coffee cup. A quick glance at the number tells him all he needs to know, and his expression falls before he can school it into something innocent, for the sake of Grace.

"What's the matter, Danno?"

He smiles at her, flicks her braid. "Nothing, monkey, nothing at all."

Steve is issued with the task of putting Grace to bed - _serrrriously, dads, I'm not a baby anymore_ \- whilst Danny goes out to the sand, cell in hand. Once Grace is settled and content, Steve grabs a beer and goes to stand beside his partner, quiet as the phone conversation continues. He takes a swig, listening to his jaw creak as Danny utters a crisp, "yes, no, yes, understood."

A beep indicates the termination of the call, and Steve silently hands Danny the bottle. He is disgusted to admit that at some point they turned into one of those couples who shared food and drink. He'd been running late for work one morning, Grace still needing to be dropped off at school and Danny in Jersey, and he'd found himself polishing off her half eaten bowl of cereal without thought as he'd dashed around with various papers tucked under his arm, simultaneously issuing Grace with reminders about what she needed to pack into her schoolbag and searching for his badge. He supposes there are worse things than domesticity.

...Like his partner being dragged off to fuck knew where, doing fuck knew what, to repay a debt that wasn't even his.

Danny takes a swig of the beer. “Relax. I just have to deliver a thing to a guy at a place. You know, the usual.”

Steve makes a conscious effort to relax his fists, lest his nails dig any further into his palms. “Ah. Useful, Danny, useful. You couldn’t have decided to be a teacher?”

Danny barks out a laugh, hands the beer back. “Says the perfectly innocent itty bitty Ninja!SEAL. Need I remind you which one of us is still in the service?”

Steve waves a hand. “Irrelevant.”

Danny doesn’t snort, but it’s a near thing. “Just because you say it, doesn’t make it so. Look.” He stoops to inspect something spindly that is crawling across the sand, whipper-snapper claws too close to his toes for his liking. He takes a step back, and Steve follows magnetically. “Look,” Danny continues. “I need you to stay.”

A staggering number of protests fight to be first off the tip of Steve’s tongue, but Danny silences him with a look.

“This isn’t the same, Steve. You know what’s going on. I’m not sneaking off in the middle of the night with my trusty balaclava. I’m not assuming you can’t handle it.”

Steve shakes his head, full to the brim with determination. “Not happening. No way. No. Your problems are my problems, remember?”

“Don’t quote me to me, it’s annoying.”

\-----

It turns out okay, in the end. _A thing and a guy and a place,_ ended up being pretty much the extent of it, much to Steve’s relief. He’d been bracing for anything from a full-scale assault on a terrorist compound to defusing a nuclear bomb, and Danny had barely stopped for breath he’d been so busy with the mocking. Sure, said _thing_ might have been the less than legal schematics to a bank, and Steve was pretty sure he’d seen _the guy_ on Interpol flags, and okay, yes, _the place_ happened to fall somewhere in a less than reputable neighbourhood of Kabul. But it could be worse.

Realizing that he’s just rationalized crime, he bangs his head repeatedly against his fist.

\-----

Danny wakes up to Steve standing over him, his black clothes blending into the darkness of the room, thigh holster and gun resting in his right hand.

"I will kill you. I... I cannot believe you, I-" Danny cuts off, physically incapable of further speech, his rage feeling like a tangible object in his throat.

Steve holds his free hand up, protesting his innocence. "Relax. I haven't gone anywhere. Fuck, I'm not _that_ slow on the uptake. Come on, Captain Williams, we have a politician's car to steal and lots of lovely evidence to illegally obtain."

Danny graces Steve with the dirtiest, laziest salute he's ever had the pleasure of witnessing. "With all due respect, Lieutenant-Commander McGarrett," he says, even as he hauls himself out of bed and reaches for a black shirt. "You can bite me."


End file.
